


Draw, Partner

by ScribeFigaro



Category: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Mirosanta 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 18:55:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5597023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeFigaro/pseuds/ScribeFigaro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sango is an art student with a mysterious past.  Miroku is a nude model with a heart of gold.  They fight crime, very briefly.  A giftfic for Angie/@mirsan for the 2015 Mirosanta exchange.  My first ever Inuyasha AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Draw, Partner

 

 _Somebody shine a light_  
_I'm frozen by the fear in me_  
_Somebody make me feel alive_  
_And shatter me_  
_\- Lindsey Stirling_

 

 _Dramatis Personae:_  
Miss Sango Yeager, a Graduate Student  
Mr. Miroku Sagart, a Mysterious Figure  
Dr. Rosamund Kikyou, a Professor of Fine Arts  
Miss Kagome Twilight, a University Student  
Mr. Kuranosuke Takeda, his Dad is Rich  
Naraku, an Enemy  
Inuyasha, a Friend

 

Setting:  
Gold City, a bedroom community and university town,  
where the men are pretty and the women are ninjas

  
\- - -  


_You're so beautiful, like a tree, or a high-class prostitute!_  
_You're so beautiful, you could be a part-time model._  
_(But you'd probably still have to keep your normal job.)_  
_\- Flight of the Conchords_

 

 

**1.**

Sango snuck quietly into the classroom, glancing back and forth to make sure the instructor hadn’t noticed her late arrival.  She was barely two minutes behind when leaving her apartment, but that ballooned into 10 minutes when she missed her bus, and fast-walking across campus wasn’t made any easier by the sail of her portfolio case.

But the coast was clear; the instructor had her back to the door, and Sango was able to set up her station and settle herself just moments before the instructor finished speaking to the man at the front of the class.

This was the third model they’ve had so far in this class, with a new one every two weeks.  She’d only recently become comfortable about drawing nudes, and it certainly helped that the previous ones were an older man and an older women, both slightly overweight though not unhealthily so.  

“Alright, class.   As listed in the syllabus, the theme for these sessions will be the body in motion.  Our previously scheduled model was unable to attend, but a colleague of his gladly filled in on short notice.  Our model will display a number of poses suggesting athletic movement.  Be sure to not only get the lines right, but actually understand how anatomical structures dictate the full physique.”

Maybe if she had come in on time, she would have paid more attention to and mentally prepared herself a little better.  

 _Oh, who’s that guy?  He’s cute.  He’s young, like my age, or maybe just a year or two older.  Is he a student here?  I haven’t seen him in this class before.  Maybe he transferred?  Or maybe he’s co-instructing some special technique for today.  That’s weird that he’s wearing a robe; did he just wake up?  Nevermind, he’s taking the robe off._  

Obviously, he was the model for today, and if she had noticed that while he was still dressed, maybe her brain could have processed that information correctly, and she’d perhaps blush a bit but would still handle herself with grace.

But for a moment, her artistic detachment was shattered.

A friend of hers had once just barely avoided a serious car crash - a landscaping truck on the highway in front of her had hit a pothole, and a shovel went flying off its trailer, spinning ever closer to her windshield.  This friend told her how strange it was, how suddenly she could not see or hear anything else but this shovel as it pirouetted toward her face.  How it turned and rotated so incredibly slowly.  When it was at least 50 feet away she swears she could see the most amazing details, the spots of rust and paint on the blade, the grain of the wooden handle.  It seemed to be at least ten seconds, maybe a minute, of her watching this instrument of death flying toward her, as she changed lanes and got out of its path.  This despite the physics of the almost-accident made clear she saw the thing, changed lanes, and saw it clatter to the highway behind her all in the space of half a second at most.

 _I am having a near-death experience,_ Sango realized.  The classroom had disappeared, so far as she could tell, and there was only a tunnel, with this man at the end.  The only sound was cotton sliding on flesh - how amazing that could be so loud.  The collar of the robe began to move down his back, and well-defined deltoids came into view.  Smooth skin, tanned but not excessively so.  The valley of his spine, the hint of scapula moving as he pushed his arms back to slide out of his sleeves. The movement of his arms just enough for biceps and triceps to briefly flex and make their contours known.  The mass of his trapezius straining for a moment as he rolled his shoulders.  And just as she began to appreciate all that, the sleeve of his robe came free of his left arm, and the material swept down and across what she could only describe as the most exquisite ass she had ever seen. From that firm, perfectly-curved bottom her eyes continued further downward, to his smooth, athletic thighs, and she realized that obviously she had just died, in this classroom, and here was the angel come to claim her.

Her knees wobbled as he turned toward her.  He did not turn to face the semicircle of easels, as there was no classroom, no world outside at all.  He turned toward her, only her, moving the robe across his body as he slipped it free of his right arm.  He turned toward her and he had the most serene, thoughtful expression, like he had just learned something interesting and was waiting for opportunity to tell someone about it.  His hair was short but thick, black bangs just barely reaching his eyebrows.  His eyes a cool blue.  There was firmness to his cheeks and tightness to his mouth that she thought he was hiding a smirk.  A blush beneath his eyes was only barely perceptible.

_I am glad he is not smiling.  If he were smiling I think I’d be on the floor._

Again the tight muscles of his arms and legs.  And now his chest, sharply lined pectorals. And now his abdomen, and _holy shit, no fucking way, that’s an honest-to-god six-pack_.  

He paused a moment to fold up the robe, still holding it at around waist level, and for an excruciating moment she thought he was done, show’s over, remember to tip your waiter.  But he turned and placed the bundle of cloth on the empty chair off to his side.

The lines that demarcated his thighs from his lower abdomen were sharp, and her eyes followed them downward, past the short-trimmed black hair of his pubis, and took in the vista of his sex.

_Just a part of his body.  He’s here to work, to help us, and I won’t take advantage of him by thinking impure thoughts.  I can be perfectly objective about this, and look over that part, and move on.  There’s nothing sexual about it.  Just cylinders and spheres and me not thinking about straddling him._

“Miss Yeager?”

She started.  Her instructor, Dr. Kikyou, was already over her shoulder.

“We’re nearly done with the first pose.  Perhaps you’d like to start?”

She blinked.  She wasn’t dead, not yet.  The model was doing a javelin-throwing pose, which of course he wasn’t likely to keep for more than a couple minutes.    The graphite pencil she had been sharpening when he undressed was all but disintegrating in her hands, the point sharpened and crumbled and sharpened several times over.

_Was I just staring for the past minute?  Oh, god, my mouth was a little open.  Oh, god my chin is a little wet.  Oh, god, I was literally fricking drooling just now?_

Her hands shook a bit as she put pencil to paper, but the movements quickly became routine, and she worked out a decent pencil sketch just in time.

A half-dozen poses in all, all Olympic in theme, which certainly seemed appropriate for such a model.  Preparing to sprint.  Just having released in shot put.  A wrestling stance, lowered on his haunches with hands extended to grapple.  Her hands moved so fast, trying to capture every aspect of him.  There was no chance of seeing him again, she knew, so she had to get everything, absolutely everything.  

As class ended, she did her best to put her things away slowly.  His robe was back on, and he had a bag slung over his shoulder, which probably had his street clothes for him to change in the restroom.  There was nothing stopping her from going to him, talking to him, and at least getting his name.  Nothing but the fact she couldn’t possibly get a word out that close to him.  And seriously, what was she really going to do?  Ask him out?  Completely unprofessional.

He left before her, and she sighed softly.  That was that.  She didn’t even know his name, and now he was gone.

Tying up the clasps on her portfolio case, she smiled, and patted it on the side.

_No, not gone.  Still here.  No way I could capture all of him, but I got enough.  Plenty of references.  I don’t have to stop drawing him just because I’m done with this assignment._

Happily, as she walked off campus, she got to the bus stop just in time for the 6:57 home.

**2.**

“Son of a bitch.”

Sango flipped the kitchen light on and off a few times, to no effect.  The tiny corner kitchen remained dark.

Her roommate, lounging on the couch in the living room, twisted around to observe the crisis, flatting the book she was reading against her chest.

“I changed the last light bulb, Sango,” she said.  “That one’s on on you.”

“It’s not a light bulb, Kagome.  Look, the kitchen light is three bulbs, and no way they all burned out at the same time.  I think the switch is broken.”

“So what do we do?”

Sango went to the refrigerator and pulled the list of emergency numbers free of the magnet that held them there.

“There’s one for ‘maintenance’ and another for ‘emergency maintenence’.  Not sure which one this is,” Sango mused.  “I mean, nothing’s on fire, and we could probably go without a light here for a day or two.”

Kagome gave an unhelpful shrug.

Sango flopped on the couch and dialed the not-emergency number on her cellphone; it picked up in 3 rings.

“Maintenance, how can I help?”

The voice was actually a bit disarming.  Way too cheerful for someone who probably pulled god-knows-what out of sewer drains on a daily basis.

“Hello?” he added.

“S-sorry,” she said.  “Our light.  I mean.  The light in the kitchen.  It’s out.”

“Is the bulb burned out?”

“I don’t think so.  I mean, all three of them were fine this morning, and now they’re all out.”

“Ah, yeah, that sounds a bit more serious.  Is there any smoke, or a smell like something’s burning?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Oh, good.  Well, you’re number one on the list now, so I can come by in the next 15 minutes if that’s OK.”

“That’s fine.”

“What unit?”

“Apartment 2C.”

“And whom am I speaking to?”

“My name is Sango Yeager.”

“All right, Miss Yeager.  I’m on my way over.”

She hung up, and noticed Kagome poised at the edge of the couch.

“What?” Sango asked.

“What the heck was that about?”

“What?  I called the maintenence guy, like I said I would.”

Kagome stood, and mocked a courtesy.

“Mah name is Sango Yeager - of the hAtlanta Yeagers, as you _sha-hure-lee_ know - and I am so very _pleased_ to make your acquaintance.”

“I don’t sound like that!”

“But you did just now!  What’s the deal?  Did he sound hot?  He sounded hot, didn’t he?”

“For God’s sake, Kagome, I swear that’s the last time I ever call to fix crap in this place.  If your bedroom floods so much it turns into a fishbowl, I’m just gonna let it happen.”

Kagome mock-pouted, settling back into the couch with her book.

“But yeah,” Sango said.  “He sounded kinda hot.”

Kagome tilted the book just enough for Sango to see her eyes, and the wide gap between them and her eyebrows.

**3.**

About twenty minutes later, there was a knock at the door.  The girls were at either end of the couch, ostensibly watching TV but with the volume at an imperceptible level, with Kagome still reading her romance novel and Sango flipping through a magazine.  Sango was particularly interested in a magazine article she had just noticed: there was a traveling show on Sengoku Jidai artifacts, particularly wall scrolls, kimono, and pottery, which would arrive at the local art museum next week.  But just before the knock at the door, Kagome had gotten up to grab a can of soda from the fridge, so she was arm’s reach of the front door when the knock came.

“C’mon in,” Kagome said.  “Thanks for coming out so quick.”

Sango buried herself in her magazine.  She knew Kagome was trying to throw her glances to come over and say hi to the maintenance guy, but Kagome’s matchmaker tendencies had been wearing thin these last few months, and Sango was going to fight this one to the best of her ability.  Focusing on her magazine, she meticulously studied a photograph of a wall scroll.

But she listened.

Several clicks.  The flipping of the wall switch.

“Yeah, three bad light bulbs would be pretty weird.  They were all working last time you noticed?”

“I’m pretty sure,” Kagome said.

“All right, let me check something.”

The thunk of a toolbox on the kitchen floor, and the squeak of it opening.  The buzz of a cordless screwdriver.  She caught a quick glance of his back as he removed the plastic rectangle around the wall switch, and pulled out something with wires from his toolbox, and poked it into the hole he made a few times, occasionally flipping the switch on and off.

“Can you fix it?” Kagome asked.

“Yep, not a big deal.  These wall switches wear out sometimes. I have a spare in my truck.  I’ll be back in a minute, so don’t use this light in the meantime.”

The front door opened and closed, and after a few minutes, there was another knock.

And then another knock.

Sango looked up.  Kagome was missing.  As she stood and craned around into the hallway, she could see Kagome’s bedroom door closed.

_Not even fair._

Sighing, she answered the door.

“Sorry,” he said, “I don’t -”

Time stopped for a moment.  He was frozen in the doorway, and she stood still.

_I never actually heard him speak, in that classroom, those weeks ago.  And I never really looked at him, in my apartment just now._

_Oh my God._

“You,” she squeaked.  

His ball cap and flannel shirt and baggy jeans and shit-kicker boots covered him well enough that she normally would not have thought anything special of his physique, but she had seen him stripped down to nothing, and as she saw him in her doorway she imagined the body beneath the clothes, how the clothes draped and concealed him, but nonetheless existed as a layer bound to anatomy, and she knew that anatomy extraordinarily well now, as sketches of his form appeared with disturbing regularity in her scrapbook.

“Truck,” he said.  Blinked.  “Spare truck.”  His eyes flicked to the right.  

He exhaled, composing himself.

“I thought I had a spare light switch in my truck, but there aren’t any left in my supply.  There’s a hardware store around the corner, so it shouldn’t be more than 15 minutes.  I’m extremely sorry for the inconvenience.”

“You don’t have to -” she said, but he was already gone.

She closed the door, and leaned against it.

_Shit._

She had slid down to the floor and rested her chin on her knees.  She wasn’t sure how long she huddled there, hostage to her thoughts, when Kagome gave up and emerged from her bedroom.

“Did you - ah, Sango!”

Immediately she was at her side, on her knees, her entire being that of adorable vengeance.

“I’m so sorry!  I didn't think it would go bad!  What did he do?  Did he hurt you? Lock the door and I’ll call the cops.  I have pepper spray in my room.  We’ll use that if he knocks down the door.”

“Kagome, no, it’s not like that.”

She squatted before her.  Grasped Sango’s hands in her own.

“I swear.  I solemnly swear, Sango.  Just give me the word.  I will _fucking cut him_.”

Sango swatted her hands away.

“Jesus, Kagome.  I mean, thanks.  Really.   But he didn’t do anything.  I just freaked a bit.”

“Well, God’s sake, why?”

“Because I saw him before.  I had no idea he worked here.  But he was the guy I told you about.”

“What guy?”

“In my art class,” she said.

“Kuranosuke?”

“What? No, he’s like six blocks away, and he doesn’t work anywhere; his dad’s rich.  And he’s in a different art class, anyway.”

“Well, come on.  How do you know him?”

“He’s in my figure modeling class.  Was.  Three weeks ago.  He … he was the model.”

“Oh.”

“The nude model.”

“Are you fricking serious, Sango?”

She nodded.

“He’s doing all this handyman shit and you’ve seen his fricking peen?”

“What!?  No, holy crap, that’s not the issue!”

“That’s _totally_ the issue!”

“No, not at all!  That was art!  It was professional and he was an excellent model and … seriously, Kagome, if you saw his face when he recognized me, you’d understand.  He was so embarrassed, and I just felt awful.  I don’t know much about our models, and that’s kind of the point - they do this stuff anonymously so they don’t have creeper art students stalking them.  I don’t even know his _name_ , Kagome.  And I’m pretty sure he wants it to stay that way.”

“Sango, come on, I’m sure it’s not that big of a deal.”

“It _is_ , Kagome!  It’s a really big deal! Do you have any idea what kind of courage it takes to take of all your clothes and stand around for an hour while 20 people stare at you and draw pictures of you naked?  I certainly don’t!  But he did that, and I got so much amazing work out of that inspiration, and I’m sure the one thing he counted on was that it was over when he was done posing.  But he came here, in his normal life, and the right thing for me to do would be to pretend I didn’t even recognize him.  But I opened that door and just stood there with my mouth hanging open like a goddamn freak.  I’ve completely blown it.  He’s not going to get that new part or whatever.  He’s going to call in sick and get someone to take over.”

Kagome stood.

“No way,” she said.  “He’s totally coming back.  And you’re going to be casual and confident and freaking awesome about it.   And he’s going to see all that and ask you out.”

“That’s just crazy, Kagome.”

“I mean it.  You think he made an excuse to give this job to someone else, but maybe he made an excuse to buy some time to think things through.  But I know for sure he totally wants you.”

“Where do you even get that, Kagome?”

“He likes girls, right?”

“As far as I know.”

“And he’s looked at you before?  Like, you made eye contact at some point?”

“I think so.”

Kagome nodded authoritatively.

“He wants you. No way a straight guy could look at you and not want to date you.”

“Kagome, I can’t even…”

Another knock at the door. Kagome smiled, and mouthed “good luck” and ran to her bedroom.

Gathering herself, Sango opened the door.

“I think this should work,” he said.  “Sorry.  May I come in?”

Sango nodded, and gestured “enter” with one hand, and he did so.

The gray metal panel beside the outside door popped open at his touch, and he ran a finger along the switches inside.

“I’m going to pull the breaker for the kitchen,” he said, “but I can’t be sure the label is accurate.  Do you have any computers or other electronics that you don’t want me to unplug?”

Pretty much everything was on her laptop, which obviously could take being unplugged for a bit.  Probably the same was true with Kagome, and if not, well, she’s been testing her patience.

“No, I’m sure it’s fine.”

He reached forward, and there was a heavy clunk as he flipped a circuit breaker to the “off” position..  He moved to the wall switch, poked it with the wired measuring device a few times, and then set that down and drew a cordless screwdriver.  She leaned against a kitchen cabinet as he unscrewed the switch from its mounting box, and then loosened the bolts that connected it to the mess of wires in the wall.

She felt the need to engage him, to say something, anything.

“Where’d you learn how to do this kind of stuff?” she asked.  With his back to her, he did not see her cringe.  God, it sounded almost accusatory, as if he was just some slab of meat she saw back in that classroom, and household electrical repair was some neat trick someone taught him.

“It’s the family business.  My grandfather’s company has a lot of investment properties, and my dad did most of the management and maintenance.  But my grandfather is semi-retired now, so it’s my dad’s turn to run the business, and my turn to fix whatever breaks.”

He paused for a moment, glancing at her, and turned away in what seemed suspiciously like embarrassment.

“That’s … that’s probably a longer answer than you wanted.  Sorry; I’m not used to people asking about my job.”

She racked her brain to find something else to say, but still she was poised at the edge of the kitchen counter, watching this man who was totally naked once, watching him poke and prod until he had removed one switch and replaced it with a new one he unpacked from a box, and he installed this in the wall again, and poked it a few times with his odd wired device.

He walked back to the grey box outside the entryway door and flipped on a switch, and then flipped the new switch upward, and the kitchen light came on.

Sango clapped her hands twice in celebration of his success, before she realized she was being insane.

He laughed at her sudden enthusiasm, and then took the rectangular switch cover and screwed it into place.

“That should do it.  Sorry about the inconvenience.  These switches last decades, but these apartments are pretty old, so I’m afraid this is inevitable.”

She nodded.  “Of course.”

He gathered up his tools, clasped his toolbox closed, and carried it to the front door, smiling over his shoulder.  

“Have a good evening, Miss Yeager.”

He was leaving.  This was their second time meeting, and still she didn’t know his name, and he was leaving, and this time, for sure, it was the end.

With the sort of sixth sense she somehow invoked in any matchmaking need, Kagome burst from her room, immediately squaring off with him.

He leaned back a bit, a trace of fear in his posture.

“S-sorry … did I - did I do something wrong?” he said.

“ _Yes_ ,” she said.  “I’ve been eavesdropping on you two this entire time and you never even introduced yourself.”

“Ah - you - you’re completely right.”

He dug a business card from his back pocket and handed it to Sango.

“My apologies.  Miroku Sagart, at your service.  Please don’t hesitate to contact me directly if you have any other problems with the apartment.  I’m on call most days, and if you call my cell directly I can get in touch faster than the night answering service.”

She gripped the card with both hands, thumbs brushing the texture.  She found herself speechless at the juxtaposition of his blue-collar dress, his businesslike speech, his warm smile, and the fact all these things came from the same man whose nude figure she had been drawing so obsessively the past few weeks.  Why was it that now, fully dressed, he seemed so much more vulnerable, so much more exposed, than he did when he was actually naked?

Her eyes skimmed over the card.  

 

_Miroku Sagart_

_Sagart Properties LLC_

_“When you’re here, you’re home.”_

There was something oddly intimate about realizing his family owned the building.  Was he the one who replaced the carpets and painted right before they moved in?  Were the things about their apartment she found quaint and quirky all his doing?

“Perfect,” Kagome said.  “Now.  Do you have a girlfriend, Miroku?”

The color drained from his face.  Sango’s face burned, but she knew nothing short of putting Kagome in a headlock and dragging her to her room would succeed in stopping the freight train that was Kagome in matchmaking mode.

“Ah - no, not currently.”

“And you’re a Tanukis fan, I’ll bet?”

Sango hadn’t made the connection before that Miroku’s well-worn ballcap was emblazoned with the emblem of the local pro-ball team, the Gold City Tanukis.

“I go to games when I can,” he demurred.

“Well, that works out great.  Sango and I have two tickets to the Tanukis game on Friday, but I can’t make it.  Why don’t you take my ticket?  It’ll go to waste otherwise.”

He pressed a fist to his mouth and coughed.

“I’m afraid I can’t accept that.  It’s quite generous but I the company has rules about accepting gifts from residents.”

  
“Well, it’s not much of a gift.  I mean, they were bottom of the league last season.  I couldn’t give these things away if I wanted.”

His posture stiffened.  Kagome didn’t seem to notice.  Sango did, and began looking for a hole to crawl into.

_Such a shame.  That almost went well._

“Miss, please excuse me, they are in fact three places above last, outplaying both the Orangetown Onis and the Nara City Kitsunes.  More importantly,  the Gold City Tanukis are an underfunded team in a small city and they work harder than you can imagine. ”

“They could work all day long but they still su-”

The runaway train that was Kagome matchmaking began to slip off the tracks; but she caught herself, realizing he took the local team a bit too seriously for him to stomach the teasing of an out-of-towner graduate student.  

“-sscertainly … play …” she added.  A quick breather.  “...their goddamn hearts out!”

A quick pause, and realizing he might not buy this, Kagome pumped her fist for emphasis.

_Oh, god, this went from disaster to catastrophe._

He blinked.  Looked at Kagome.  Looked at Sango.

_Fuck it, we’re rolling with this._

“We’re big fans of underdogs,” Sango said.  “It makes the game way more intense, because we know that team takes everything so serious.  I haven’t seen a Tanukis game yet, but I’ll bet they’re totally amazing!”

This seemed to work.  He seemed to nod in resignation.

“The opportunity to see a new Tanukis fan in the making is something I surely can’t give up.  May I pick you up at six?”

Sango started.  She thought they’d just meet at the stadium.  If he picked her up, then doesn’t that mean it’s --

“It’s a date!” Kagome announced, patting Sango on the back.

_Oh god, did I really just - did I ask him out?_

He gently took his card from her hands, scribbled a number on the back - his personal cell - and handed it back before he left.  Sango continued to hold it in her hands, slowly processing what just happened.

Kagome beamed beside her.

“See how easy that was?” Kagome asked.

“Y-yeah.  You didn’t have to give up those baseball tickets though.  I’ll pay for them, I promise.”

“What tickets?”

“You…”

“I never had any. Seriously, they’re bottom of the league. Buy two seats tonight and pretend you already had them.  Come on, Sango, this isn’t difficult.”   

 

**4.**

The knock on her door came promptly at six.

“Sango,” he said, smiling.  He presented a half-dozen carnations.

“Oh,” she said.  She took the bouquet, curiously.  This was a new one for her.   

“I’m not sure … I’m sorry … should I keep these with me?”

He smiled.

“You could put them on your kitchen counter, and place them in a vase after I bring you home.  I think that’s typical, and they will survive a few more hours in such a state.  But you could just as easily throw them away, right now.  After all, I brought them here to see the smile on your face, and that most wonderful blush, so their purpose is already served.”

She was, in fact, blushing.  Not so much at his rather smarmy charm, but at the goofy grin with which he delivered it, like he made a hobby out of collecting and using deliberately bad pickup lines.

She dug a dusty vase out of the cabinet beside the fridge, washed it out, and placed the flowers inside, placing it on a table near the living room window.

Tanukis Stadium was seven blocks south-southwest of her apartment; the fact it was less than a mile walk made it all the more embarrassing that she had been studying for her M.A. degree for over a year and still hadn’t gone to a game.

She looked him over as he walked beside her.  Cleaned up some from his job, but still casual.  Worn sneakers, jeans, and a Tanukis t-shirt and ball cap.  Not a flattering combination of colors - red and white accents clashing badly with a field of blue and purple - but she couldn’t rightly blame him for his home team’s less-than-inspired choice of palette.

She was a sports fan more in the generalities than in the particulars - high school soccer, rec league college softball, occasional dabblings in martial arts.  Miroku mentioned what pitchers he thought would be up today, and she was pretty sure he could give the entire lineup if she asked for it.

The thing was, though, she was not a fan of _sports fans_ , and had it been her choice, she would most surely not have picked a baseball game as a first date venue.  Her first impression of Miroku was that of someone easygoing, with a sort of quiet intensity she found quite intriguing.  She found herself bracing for the moment he would reveal a less charming side of himself.

Perhaps this was for the best, though.  Back in college she’d dumped one date at a football game and another at a hockey game; there’d be a sort of satisfaction in making it a trifecta.

_Honestly, I should be giving dating advice.  Ladies, is your man a well-disguised  simmering pot of barely-repressed rage?  Bring him to a sporting event involving a team he is way too invested in.  Observe him scream and cry about events that have absolutely zero effect on his life, fling beers, start fights, and get in foul-mouthed shouting matches with shirtless people for no reason.  The bloom will come off that relationship rose damned quick._

_… I really have shit luck with men._

She started for a moment at his touch.  He had gently touched her arm and shoulder a few times, guiding her as he began to shoulder through thicker and thicker crowds of baseball fans, but this last touch was at her lower back, perilously close to her bottom.

“Don’t get any funny ideas,” she said.

He laughed.

“Oh, I have all sorts of funny ideas.  Mostly chili dogs with some goo that has pretensions of cheese.  And $1 beers that cost $8.  Have you been to a pro baseball stadium before?”

“Once, I guess.  With my dad, when I was a little girl.”

He seemed to start at this.

“Oh.  Sorry, I assumed you were uninitiated.  Where?”

“Kaede City.  Taijiyas vs. Youkais.  We won, I think.  It was a long time ago.”

He seemed to light up at this.

“Fantastic.  The Taijiyas are a solid team.”

They reached the gates, and she had a few flustered seconds of forgetting which pocket they were in.

The seats weren’t bad. First tier, 20 rows back, right field.  Good enough to see most of the action.  She turned down the beer and chili dog, although he did not, and she found herself sipping his beer, and grabbing bites off his chili dog, and he seemed to tolerate this as well as could be expected.

He was surprisingly quiet.  He cheered on every good play, and applauded, and never seemed to stop smiling, but he seemed very reserved as well.  The crowd noise was enough they had to lean in each other's’ ears to be understood, and when he caught her look of confusion on a lot of people booing for no clear reason, he explained the details of the controversial call.

He excused himself on the fifth inning, returning with two beers, one of which she accepted gladly.  With her hands occupied he produced a brand-new ball cap from his back pocket and gently placed it atop her head.

“Miroku, you don’t have to -”

“Of course I have to.  Mandatory really.  Attending a Tanukis game without a shirt or hat or anything?  Sango, you’ve been positively indecent.”

She shook her head in annoyance, but set down her beer and adjusted the cap, slipping her ponytail through the hole in the back. Squeezing a curve into the bill and adjusting the angle, she turned to him, smiling.

“How do I look, Miroku?”

She wasn’t sure what she did right then.  It wasn’t the ball cap, she knew.  Was it the way she was smiling, or how she tilted her head? Or was it the fact that she was (she would realize later) giving him his first real opportunity to say something he had been meaning to say for a while?

She realized that the expression on his face right now - this sort of stunned gaze, like a blind man seeing his first sunrise - was almost surely the same expression she wore back on their first, inauspicious meeting.  The way you look at something - someone - that you know nothing about but just simply _want_ , with indescribable desperation.

She was blushing even before he spoke, her fingers laced around the soft plastic of her cup of beer, but whatever he said was lost in the roar of the crowd.  The Tanukis had just scored.  A double, from the sound of it.  Miroku’s eyes never left her face.

She shook her head, mouthing that she couldn’t hear.

He leaned in close.  Very close.  Breath warm on her ear.

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

Her face burned.

“You,” she said, “you really … have a thing for baseball caps, huh?”

He laughed, his hand rubbing the back of his neck, flushed in embarrassment.  She instantly regretted her response - a sincere “Thank you” would surely have been more appropriate - but at the moment her gut reaction was to scream “Oh my god stop!” and the full extent of her restraint was needed to change this into a joke about him having a hat fetish.  

_I need an earpiece with Kagome on the other end, camped out with binoculars somewhere, telling me what to say._

She nursed her beer another two innings; during the bottom of the seventh the Tanukis were already down, 12-5, and Miroku suggested they may as well call it.

Fans were already trickling out of the stadium, slowly aggregating in the bars that lined the streets.  She realized she was beginning to warm to him, and when he expressed interest in stopping for a drink she gladly followed.

They found a quiet table, and she meant only to have one last beer with him and talk a bit about the game, but one beer led to another, and then to nachos ...

“So I have to ask.  Are you related Bill Yeager?  From the Taijiya Extermination company?” he asked.

“Yeah, actually, he’s my dad.  How do you know about him?  I didn’t think he did any work in this city.”

“Not directly, but he has a handful of licensees spread over this part of the country, and one of them does most of our pest control. I’ve met Mr. Yeager once or twice, when he was following up on a particularly difficult job a few years ago.  I was still in high school though, just following my father at work and trying to learn whatever I can.”

“Maybe I’m in the same situation as you, then,” she said.  “My father is planning to run the company for another 20 years or more, but he’s holding a job open for me if and when I’m ready to get into the family business.  I feel kind of weird putting all this work into something I might never actually use in a career but … I don’t know.  If this graphic design thing works out for me, great. And if not, at least I have something to fall back on.”

“It’s a weird feeling,” he said.  “It’s hard to get past the idea that I didn’t really earn what I have.  But I love what I do, and if I wasn’t working in my family’s company I’d probably be doing the exact same thing somewhere else.”

“But if you worked somewhere else, you’d feel more sure that it’s something you really earned,” she mused.

He rapped his knuckles on the table for emphasis.

“Yes!  Yes, that’s it exactly.”

“I’m the same way.  My younger brother might be more suited for the business.  My parents are great, but I’m not so sure their choices are the same ones that I want to make.”

“People say that a 4-year degree is the new high school diploma, and graduate school is the only way to specialize and differentiate yourself anymore,” he said.  “If that’s the case, the age at which people get to the point of deciding what they want to be in life is becoming older and older.”

She sipped her beer.

“So you grew up here?  Like, the same people you went to kindergarten with you might see in college?”

“Yeah, more or less, although it seems like nearly everyone I know moved away at some point.  My family is still in the area, so that’s nice.”

She smiled.

“A real townie, huh?”

“Hence the sports obsession that - have since gathered - you don’t quite share.  Anyway, would you excuse me a moment?”

She took another sip of her beer as he left for the restroom, but upon swallowing, the beer became foul in her mouth.  A cloud of Axe body spray spread throughout the room.

“Naraku,” she growled.

“Sango, how good to see you.”

He must have been waiting in a corner somewhere, waiting for her to be alone.  She didn’t give him the credit of even turning toward his direction, waiting instead for him to glide, slug-like, around her right side, and take Miroku’s seat.

It was a mystery to her how someone that was objectively rather attractive - lean, sharp-featured, confident and occasionally even suave - could, by the slightest betrayal of his mannerisms, come across as so unspeakably vile.

“I see you’ve changed your face again,” she said.

He smiled, newly-bleached teeth gleaming.  She’d last seen him in her hometown, in high school, some five years ago.  Back then he ran with the goth crowd, and played the part.  And to be fair, she fell for him, at least a little.  Something about the long hair and effusion of ennui.  But he was a poser then, only passing himself off as someone with real feelings, someone with a soul.  

His new appearance was simply revolting.  Pink shirt tucked into white khakis.  Socks with Crocs.  Popped collar accentuating a puka shell necklace.  Hair cut short, bleached and spiked with frosted tips, and a patchy goatee.

“Do you like it?” he said.  “I know you do.  I can almost _hear_ your panties becoming moist.”

She did not respond to this - it was just his nature to be this revolting, and his face faltered as he realized this was not getting any reaction.

She shook her head.

“Oh, sorry. I was lost in thought,” she said.

“Do tell,” he said.

“Of course.  I was just wondering what frat house on campus has a basement bathroom so filthy that a slime mold grew in a corner, and eventually spawned you.  Was it Phi Kappa Douchebag?  Because I’ll jerry-rig a flamethrower and go Ellen Ripley on that motherfucker.”

He frowned.

“All right, this conversation isn’t going the direction I was expecting.”

“Poor baby,” she said.  “Were you going to regale me with your exploits in coming to a college town - the same one I’m in - and establishing a drug lab?”

“I ... fuck, seriously?  Who told you that?”

She smiled, keeping her voice cheery and conversational.  The bar was not very full yet, but there were enough patrons that she preferred to avoid drawing unnecessary attention.

“You’re a fucking cooker, you dipshit.  And since you’ve gone full dudebro, I’m going to guess you’re making connections with a couple frats.  Are the Shikon sales going well, you walking sack of shit?”

Movement caught her eye.  Miroku had returned from the restroom; she made brief eye contact and waved him off.  He nodded, hanging back for a minute.

“Come now, Sango.  That’s no way to speak to your brother’s former employer.  And creditor, I should add.  Kohaku still hasn’t made good on those ten bags of Miasma.”

“He flushed it because it was poison, you ass.  It would’ve killed your customers.  And he made good, or don’t you remember?  Half retail and he stays out of town.  Jesus, Naraku, you have to be the worst goddamn drug dealer on the planet.  Nobody works with you because you keep ripping up whatever deals you make, and nobody buys from you because you keep lacing their Shikon with fucking Miasma.”

He sighed, and placed a business card before her.

“All right, clearly I’ve caught you at a bad time.  But when you realize this college thing isn’t working out for you, give me a call.  I need someone with your particular skills.”

“My skills?  Like my ability to tell you how much of a shitbag you are?  I do that stuff for free.”

He slithered away, no doubt confident this was a verbal sparring match where he had won handily.  She made a “come hither” gesture to Miroku, who had been standing uncomfortably near the pool tables in the back.

He returned to his chair.

“You know,” he said, “I’m glad Guy Fieri lost so much weight, but it turned him into a total asshole.”

She snorted.

“Thanks for having my back,” she said.  “I was pretty sure Naraku wasn’t going to try anything I couldn’t handle, but it’s always nice to have backup.”

“No problem.  Naraku is his name, huh?  I guess you two have some history?”

“Yeah, just some shitty drug dealer from back home.  Haven’t seen him in years.  I guess he set up shop in Gold City.”

She picked up the business card, rubbing the pretentious black gloss with her fingers.  

 

_Onigumo Industries_

_Ride the Spider_

“What the hell does that even mean?” she muttered.

“And your brother?  Is he okay?”

“Oh, Kohaku?  He’s doing well.  In and out of rehab for a while, but this last time seems to be sticking.  Naraku seems to think this gives him more leverage than he really does.”

“And he seriously wanted to hire you?  For what?”

“Back in high school, he seemed to think I’d be a good pusher, and get all the female athletes on his product.  Maybe he’s thinking the same thing now about art school.  I don’t know; the guy’s obsessive.  If he’s the same as he was before, he has some ridiculously intricate plan that makes no sense to anyone but him, and when it fails spectacularly he’ll just act as if that was his plan all along.”

“Rather obnoxious,” he said.

“Seriously.  You have no idea how annoying this guy is.  You know in the park, where there are those concrete tables with the chessboards on them, and a bunch of retirees hanging around?  And you know at least one or two of them are a master at the game?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Naraku’s like a guy who comes across as a grand master, but very secretive.  And you work your way through all the barriers he puts up - fake names and hired muscle and stuff like that - and you sit down with this world-class expert.  And there’s this pigeon.  And you make your first move, and he counters by shitting on the board and strutting around like he’s won.”

“And Naraku’s that pigeon?”

“Naraku is that pigeon’s shit.”

Miroku choked on his beer.

“Anyway.  I’m sorry Miroku, this kind of sours the night.  I really had a great time though.  You think we could try this again?”

“Absolutely.  Can I walk you home, or are you on your own?”

“I think I’m fine.  I kind of need to clear my head anyway.”

He placed some cash on the table, anchored with his pint glass.  She crumpled up Naraku’s business card.  The paper felt strange in her hand.  Soft.  No, not exactly.  Her fingers were numb.

She turned her hand over.  Blue-black marks on her thumb and fingers.  Matching fingerprints on the card she dropped.

_Oh, shit._

She dug around in her purse, pulling out a ziploc baggie of pens and pencils, dumped them, and put the business card inside.  She might not remember what was written on it, and in any case, she needed to know exactly what Naraku had doctored it with.

“Sango?” Miroku said, with a tone of urgent worry.

She plunged a handful of napkins into her water glass and scrubbed as much of the drug off her hands as she could.  The bathroom would be wise, but she couldn’t count on there being any soap, and moreover, the risk of passing out was too high.

She turned this way and that, her vision blurring and stomach churning with the movement.  Coordination would go soon.

“Walk me home,” she said.  “Quickly.”

“What’s happening, Sango?  Please, tell me.”

“The business card he gave me.  He laced it with Miasma, and something that lets it soak through the skin.”

“I’ll call an ambulance.”

“No.  It’ll be fine.  Just help me get home.”

“You don’t want me to call the police?  

“I don’t want him to know this worked.  Please, Miroku.  I know this guy.  This stuff wears off in a few hours, but I’m going to be a blithering idiot in a few minutes.  I’m sorry, this is a lot of crap to put you through, and if it’s too much just go ahead and call the cops.  But it would really save my ass if you walked me home and let me sleep this shit off.”

He took her hand in his - the first time they actually held hands! - and led her home.

She got two blocks before her feet were unsteady.  In desperation, Miroku took a shortcut, through a service alley, and stepped in pigeon shit.

Naraku emerged from behind a dumpster.

“Walk away, bro,” Naraku sneered.  “You don’t owe this bitch anything.”

Sango’s vision blurred; her legs moved like licorice.  Miroku’s arm wrapped around her back, under her armpit, and supported most of her weight.

“This is insane,” Miroku said, “I’m calling the cops.”

“Go for it,” Naraku said.  “They’ll get here just in time to find Sango and me gone, and you with your throat cut.”

Miroku guided Sango against the brick wall of the alleyway.

“Sorry,” he said, “I’m going to go do something very stupid.”

“You’ll be fine.  Use Hiraikotsu.”

“What?”

She reached into her purse and placed the boxy weapon into his hand.  She didn’t know too many women who owned stun guns, so she wasn’t sure how common it was to name them, or to break out enamel paint and decorate them with coral accents and the dangly charms people usually put on cell phones.  She clicked off the safety and handed it to him.

“Thumb on this button.  Put the red dot on his heart.  Pull the trigger,” she said.

Miroku nodded.

“All right, bro,” Naraku said.  “I get it.  I see where you’re going with this.  You spent some money on this bitch, you earned some ass.  So let’s negotiate.  I’ll stand watch, you tap that, and let me get the sloppies.  Do we have a deeeeaAAAHHHH!”

Solid hit with the barbs.  Stiff as a board, Naraku fell on his back and rode the lightning.

Her legs were not much good anymore, but she could crawl, and ignoring Miroku’s protests, straddled Naraku, hands on his throat.

“You sick motherfucker,” she said.  “I swear to God I will end you.”

Naraku smiled, and laughed, and everything turned black.

 

**5.**

Her ceiling was white, not pale green.

She stared for a moment.

Her ceiling was white, not pale green, and her bedroom door was at the right side and not the left.  Her blankets were pink, not purple.  And all her furniture and pictures were wrong.

Some asshole had remodeled her bedroom, thrown out all her stuff, and replaced it with new stuff.  How stupid did they think she was?  Like she wouldn’t notice?

Someone drove a carving knife into her head, into her brain, just behind her eyes, and she moaned in pain.

“Sango.”

There was a pile of clothing on the chair that she didn’t have, and the clothing moved, and there was a man in the clothing, and the man was looking at her.

“Sango, you know the drill.  What is your last name?”

“Yeager,” she said.

“And how many fingers?”

He held up two fingers.

“Eleventeen,” she said.

“Eight times,” he said.

“What?”

“Eight times you’ve made that joke.  How many fingers?”

“Two.  Jesus, what’s going on?”

He sat up, leaned in close.

“Hey, I think you’re actually awake this time,” he said.

She moved her fingers and toes experimentally, stretched her arms and legs.  Those all seemed to be in order.

“Miasma!” she gasped. “Ah, god, what happened?  Where am I?”

“My apartment.  After our run-in with Naraku you were insistent we not return to your place.  Something about how Kagome would react, and how ‘She’ll go to prison for sure this time,’ which, I assure you, I want to know more details about.”

Her eyes ran over the room.  Four plastic water bottles on the nightstand two half-empty.  A few towels, some damp.  On the floor, a plastic bucket, also wet, as if recently washed.

“Oh my god,” she said.  “I was … I mean…”

“I think ‘productive’ would be accurate,” he said.  “And rather verbal.  You came up with curse words I don’t think I’ve ever heard before.  I took notes.  If your studies in graphic design fail to pan out, I think you should try a career in profanity.”

Her hands moved under the blankets.  Her jeans were very damp.  Her shirt gone, though her bra was still in place.  

“You were sick on your shirt,” he said.  “I’ll run it through the wash but for now I’ll let you borrow one of mine.  As it is in my nature to take advantage of such a situation, I will of course force you to wear a Tanukis jersey.”

“I didn’t know,” she said.  “I didn’t think it would hit me that hard.  Miroku, I’m so sorry.”

He brushed her forehead.

“I assure you that you’re quite worth it.”

“I’m not.  I’m sorry.  Your bed.  It’s all…”

“It’s my own fault; I kept making you drink water and Gatorate to get all that poison out of you.  I don’t care about the sheets.  Forget all that.  Just tell me if you’re okay.”

“Miroku…”

His hand was still on her forehead; she slipped her arms out of the blankets and gripped it with her own hands, and placed it on her heart.

“I’m okay.  I am.  Thank you.”

He smiled.

She began to run over the events of the night in her head, figuring out where the gap started.

“How long has it been?”

“Well, the game ended yesterday at around 10pm, but we left about an hour early.  We hit the bar, Triple D showed up, and around 10:30 we had an epic battle in the alleyway.  I got you here about ten minutes later, and now it’s getting close to noon.”

“Hiraikotsu?”

He gestured to the stun gun on his desk.

“Hiraikotsu valiantly sacrificed a cartridge to the altar of victory, ensuring that Naraku dropped like a punk and shit his pants.”

“Oh,” she said.  

“And then you tried to beat the hell out of him,” he said.

“I thought I dreamed that.  I was atop him, and trying to strangle him…”

“That you did.”

“I told him I would end him.”

“Yes, almost.  You said - and I quote - ‘I swear to God I will eauuughak’”

“I what?”

“Puked.  In his face.  Like actual projectile vomit.  Ten out of ten on _The Exorcist_ scale.  It was glorious.”

“Oh god,” she said.

“I’m glad you got the nachos,” he said.  “All those textures and colors.  Like a Jackson Pollock.  I dragged you off him and he just lay there, like it was something beyond his comprehension.”

“Oh my god,” she groaned.  “I can’t even imagine … doing something like that … something so disgusting…”

She pressed a hand to her forehead, fingers rubbing soft circles on her sweaty brow.

“Was his mouth open?” she asked.

“Oh, you bet.  He was cursing you out something fierce, but it all sounded like “horklgorblfl” and such.  Hard to sound like a badass when a girl is holding you down and very aggressively force-feeding you horked-up bar food.”

The image was just too much.  Hands over her mouth failed to contain her laughter.

“I don’t know much about this Naraku guy,” he said, “but one thing was made quite obvious last night: he most assuredly does not have a baby bird fetish.  He was quite explicitly not enjoying any part of that.”

She was crying now, laughing so much it hurt.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered.  “I’m so sorry, about all of that.”

“Are you kidding?  This has to be the best date I’ve ever had.”

A gruff voice erupted from behind the door.

“Oi, Miroku!  I have to go to work, dammit!”

Miroku sighed.

“I apologize, Sango.  Please bear with this a moment.  Come on in, Inuyasha.”

The bedroom door opened, and in came a younger man - a college student, perhaps, 3 or 4 years younger than herself or Miroku - arms crossed over his chest.  He wore a red track suit that did little to hide an athletic physique, and from his posture she took him for a karate student, perhaps even an instructor.  

“Sango, this is my good friend Inuyasha.  Inuyasha, Sango.”

Inuyasha nodded, and gestured to Miroku with a thumb.

“Do I need to take care of him?” he asked.

“I … I don’t understand,” she said.

“He called me last night, saying he was with a date, and someone else roofied her, and there was a fight, and he needed a ride.  So I picked you guys up, brought you here, and you were completely out of it.  And I’ve been camped out on this jerk’s couch ever since.”

“And cleaning out my fridge,” Miroku added.

“But the deal was,” Inuyasha said, “I get to make sure you’re okay, and I did the right thing.”

“Of - of course,” she said.  “I mean, I don’t remember any of that, but I know we were in a bad situation, and although I don’t remember saying so, I really need to keep Kagome out of jail…”

“I _really_ need to know the story behind that,” Miroku interjected.

Inuyasha glared at Miroku, and sheepishly, Miroku stood.

“All right.  Sango, please excuse me for a moment.”

Miroku left the room and Inuyasha closed the door.  He took a cordless phone from the cradle and handed it to her.

“Let’s be clear here.  Miroku’s my best friend, and I trust him with my life, but I don’t know you, so I have no right to trust him with yours.  You were way out of it last night, and the slim possibility that Miroku did something terrible, and I helped, has been eating me up.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said.  “Miroku was a perfect gentleman, and as I’ve apologized to him for putting him such a terrible situation, I apologize to you as well.”

He shrugged.

“Five minutes,” he said.  “I promise neither of us will bother you for five minutes.  Call anyone, to say you’re safe, or to say you don’t feel safe.  The bedroom door locks, as well.  Whatever you need to do.”

“Inuyasha…”

“In a little bit I’m going off to the gym, and I’m going to teach a class on self-defense to a group of women, so they’ll have some options when faced with aggressive men.  If this Naraku guy gives you any more trouble, I’d be more than happy to give you a few free sessions.  Although, looking at the callouses on your hands, and those faint bruises on your shoulders, I’m going to guess you’re not exactly a novice.  Judo?”

“Aikido and Kendo, for a couple years,” she said, “although recently I’ve started taking some Krav Maga.”

“Shit,” he said.  “Nevermind then.  I’m guessing Naraku would’ve had a much worse night if he hadn’t drugged you.”

“Guys who poison girls usually don’t do it because they’re confident in their ability to win a fight.”

“Point taken.  All right, I’m going.”

He turned, and paused a moment.

“Oh, did Miroku ask you that question yet?”

“What question?” she said.

“I guess not.  Well, just to warn you, Miroku seems to like you, so he’ll probably ask you to marry him, and bear his children.”

“What!?”

“Don’t take it too seriously; it’s just a thing he does with girls he really likes.  He thinks it’s cute.  Just roll with it.”

He left, and she traced circles on the back of the phone with her thumb.

_Does he really do that?  How many girls?  Why would he think that’s cute?_

She sighed, and dialed Kagome’s number.

“Sango, where are you?  You didn’t come home last night.  I was freaking out!  If you’re gonna stay over you have to tell me, all right?”

“I know, I’m sorry.  I drank a bit too much, and forgot.  It’s okay though; I’m at Miroku’s place.”

“Oh my god I knew it!  The way you looked at him!  Oh my god, what was it like?  How many times?”

“Jesus, Kagome!  Nothing happened, okay?  But I’m nursing a hangover, so I won’t be home until this afternoon.”

“All right.  But seriously, don’t do that again.  I was like ten minutes from calling the cops.”

“I know.  I promise to be more careful.”

“Good.  And let’s say I believe you, and nothing happened.  You still have to tell me.  You and him.  Is it working?”

She bit her lip.

“I … yeah.  I think so.  It’s a long story but … he’s really something else.”

She hung up, and gingerly got to her feet.  The room swam a bit, but she got her bearings.  Her nausea was not helped in the least by the acrid scent that assaulted her as soon as she pulled the sheets aside.  

_Oh god.  I really … I never … not since I was a little girl …_

She balled her fists.  She was drugged.  Sick and helpless.  He tried to keep her hydrated and she was too out of it to use the bathroom.  He understood, she was sick.  Miroku was not completely and utterly disgusted with her.  She had to believe that.

She sucked in a breath, held back a sob.  

_I can freak out about this later._

She wobbled to the bedroom door, opened it.

“Miroku?”

“Yes, Sango?  Are you able to walk?”

He appeared in the tiny hallway, but seemed taken aback when he realized she was hiding behind the door.

“Do you mind if I use your shower?”

“Yes, of course, go right ahead.  The bathroom is right here,” he said, gesturing to a door on his right.

“Thanks.  And could you … I’m sorry, I’m not at all decent … could you ...”

“I’ll go ahead and hide in the kitchen until I hear the shower running.  Will that work for you?”

“Yes, that would be perfect, thank you.”

She took an extremely long, hot shower; near the end of which he knocked on the door.

“Miroku?”

“I have some clean clothes and things.  May I put these on the vanity?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

She stood still for a moment, water beating on her back, hearing the bathroom door open.  She could see a shadow of movement through the translucent shower curtain, and she held her breath until she could hear the door close again.  She found herself suddenly thinking about the lighting in the room, and whether or not he too saw a shadowy figure.  She had frozen in profile, hands up, fingers working out the last of the shampoo from her hair, back arched, and now aware of her particular body positioning, began to think how a light source might project her form onto the shower curtain, and what Miroku might have seen.

She felt certain, with no light in the shower itself, he would have seen nothing, but still she mapped out the lines and curves of her body, and blushed at the thought of her cutting a rather artistic silhouette, and Miroku dropping a pile of clothes on the sinktop, not intending to look at her, but nonetheless being transfixed, for a moment, at the outline of her naked body, clear lines and curves of her legs and buttocks, the arch of her back, the fullness of her breasts.

_In any case, it’s not like it’s even possible for me to still be attractive to him, not after all this._

Turning off the water, wrapping herself in a towel, she pulled aside the curtain and surveyed Miroku’s offering.  A new toothbrush, still in its package, a bottle of mouthwash, and a pile of clean clothes: sweatshirt, sweatpants, and socks.  The pile of her own clothes, which she left beside the sink, were missing.  Panic set in - she would have been very happy to hide her soiled clothes in a plastic bag, but to known he had actually handled them … ah, god, he was seeing aspects of her she really didn’t need him to see.

She found a hairdryer under the sink and - not sure what else to do - made use of his deodorant and left her hair loose to fully dry.

She found him in the kitchen, cooking something in a skillet.

“Would you like some coffee?” he said.

“Desperately.”

She poured a cup and stood beside him; he was just finishing an omelet and cut it in half, sliding it onto two plates.

“I’m not sure how you prefer it, so I went ahead with just a little shredded cheese.”

“You didn’t have to cook,” she said.

“But I wanted to,” he protested.  “How do you like your toast?”

“Today?  Thoroughly burnt would be best.”

“Two slices of charcoal coming up.”

He had a small kitchen table, just big enough for two to sit at, and they settled in.

“Sorry about the clothes,” he said, “but they’re the best I can find.  I put your stuff in the washer so you’ll be ready to get out of here in a little over an hour.”

“I really am sorry, Miroku.”

“Sorry for what?  I had a great time.  Honestly, except for a few parts, this date went better than I could ever have imagined.”

“Are you insane?”

“Well, think about it.  I picked you up, and you looked absolutely beautiful.  We enjoyed the game together, and the Tanukis didn’t give up a single run for 3 innings straight.  And then we went to a bar, got to know each other better.  And then some stuff happened.  But in the end, you slept in my bed, bathed in my shower, and now you’re eating breakfast in my kitchen, wearing my clothes, and er, nothing else.”

She rolled her eyes at him.

“Truthfully, in my ideal version of this morning, you’d be wearing one of my dress shirts, mostly unbuttoned, but I thought gym clothes would be safer to start with,” he offered.

“And the part where you carried me home and I puked all over the place?”

“Yeah, turns out, not my fetish.  Didn’t really do anything for me.  So yes, that middle part of the date I think we could stand to improve next time.  Other than that, though, it was a fantastic night.  Are you free next Saturday?”

Her mouth hung open.

“Seriously?  After all this?”

_Do you just have a thing for unsexy disaster magnets, Miroku?_

“Oh, there’s no way I’m going to let a little thing like that get in the way of what I want, Sango.”

“And what is it you want, Miroku?”

He reached for her hand, fingers brushing the knuckles.

“I want what everyone wants, of course.  For the girl I like to like me back.  To have the privilege of pointing out a stunning, powerful woman, and bragging to anyone that will listen, that she’s my girlfriend.  And, obviously, for you to marry me, and bear my children.”

She pulled her hand back, turning away from him, hand on her mouth.

_Breathe, Sango._

“I don’t … Miroku … even after all this … I mean, we just met …”

“All right,” he said, “Forget about the kids for now.  Let’s just try the boyfriend-girlfriend thing for a bit, see where that goes.  I’m flexible.”

_I seriously thought Inuyasha was joking.  He really does this?_

“Miroku, I’ll do you a favor and pretend I didn’t hear the marriage and children thing.  And as far as going out … I’m sorry, even after all you’ve done … I can’t make a decision like that when I’ve only known you a few hours!”

He nodded.

“Of course, Sango.  Still, my offer stands.  It would make me very happy if you would let me be your boyfriend.  If you can’t agree to this now, at least consider my request, and give me an answer in a few days.  If you don’t see in me the same thing that I see in you, then I will stop bothering you, and be happy that I gave it my best shot.”

It was mind-numbing, the sincerity in his voice, the sparkle in his eyes.  She’d never really met anyone like him.  Confident but not overbearing.  Well, a little overbearing, but still.  Honest without being cruel.  And braver than anyone she’d ever known, to be able to speak his feelings without hesitation.

Lost in thought, she didn’t notice him clean up the kitchen and put on his work boots.

“I apologize, Sango, but I was only able to get the morning off from work.  Since you’re awake and in good health, it’s important I get back to the leasing office and get at least pay for the afternoon.  I’m afraid I don’t have enough time to drive you home, but there’s $20 and the number to a taxi service next to the coffee maker for you.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize … ah, dammit, this really screwed things up for you, making you bring me to your place instead of mine.  Did you even sleep last night?”

“Don’t worry about it, Sango.”

“Let me get my purse and things.  I hope it’s okay for me to wear this stuff home, Miroku.  I’ll wash everything and give it back as soon as I can.”

“Nonsense.  Your clothes need another ten minutes in the washer, so when that happens, throw them in the dryer, and they should be ready to go in an hour.  Hang around here as long as you want.  Just lock the door behind you when you leave.”

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to stay here on my own?”

“Well, it’s either trust you not to rob my place, or send you home as you are.  And just the thought of you going across town in my clothes, without any underwear … actually wait, now that I say it out loud, I’m a little conflicted.”

“Maybe,” she said, “maybe I’ll stay here after all..”

He nodded.

“Seems like the safest bet.  Go ahead and make yourself at home, and if it’s all right, I’ll call you later this week?”

“I’d like that,” she said.

Just before he opened the door to leave, she stood, crossed the kitchen, and took his hand in hers.

“Thank you, Miroku.  I really mean it.  You really saw me at my worst, and I don’t know why you seem to still be interested in me, but you took care of me and I’ll do my best to pay you back somehow.”

He moved so quickly she barely had time to react - a quick kiss on her lips - and smiled warmly.

“Sango, you at your worst is better than anyone else at their best.”

She slipped her arms around him, embracing him, and he placed his hands awkwardly on her back.

“Miroku?”

“Ah, I didn’t expect you to…”

His face reddened, and she realized it may have had something to do with her sweatshirt and his t-shirt offering very little in terms of separating the hard contours of his chest from the soft curves of hers.  When she pressed harder against him, and his breath caught, she knew this to be the case.  She was reasonably well-endowed, and without a bra restricting the movement of her breasts, it seemed to please him very much to have them pressed against him.

She held him for a moment more, teasing him, and let him go.

“I, uh … work,” he said.

She laughed, and he kissed her again, on the forehead, and left.

She cleaned up the dishes and tended to the laundry, putting her things in the dryer and his bedsheets in the washer, and as those ran, she poured another cup of coffee and perused his bookshelves.  Lots of history.  Religious books of all types, with some focus on Zen Buddhism.  Books of ancient art of China, Korea, Japan.  Texts on business, finances, tax code, and so forth.  

She dressed, and replaced his bedsheets, and satisfied she’d leave his apartment in a significantly better state than she found it, left for home.  Pulling up a map on her cellphone, she found she was in the southwest part of town, a little over two miles from her own apartment, and that seemed like just the length of walk she needed to clear her head.

**6.**

He called her the next day, suggesting they go out to the Art Institute, and see a traveling show on Sengoku Jidai artifacts the following Saturday.  She was intrigued, having been reading an article about that exact show earlier, and accepted.

He again showed up with flowers, and she was taken aback at his appearance.  Black suit, properly tailored, shoes well-shined; beneath an open three-button suit coat, a light purple shirt with the top button open.  The soft scent of Old Spice on his lapels when she kissed him.  He cleaned up _nice_.

She’d like to think the sparkle in his eyes and lopsided grin as evidence he thought similar of her appearance.  She’d gone with a magenta button-up blouse and green knee-length pleated skirt.

She took the bus ride over as opportunity to interrogate him about what she had read in the paper that morning.

“Whatever do you mean, Sango?”

“You’re telling me you had nothing to do with that drug bust last night?  Because I find it a little convenient that Naraku is in jail barely a week after our run-in with him.”

“Ah, that.  Truth be told, I didn’t think it would come to that, at least not so quickly.”  
  
“What exactly did you do, Miroku?”

“I made a phone call.  That was really all it took.”

“Oh?”

“Like I said, my family owns a lot of properties, and we tend to share information about problem tenants - drug dealers being pretty high up on the list of undesirables - so all I had to do was call up a couple other property management companies and tell them there might be a Shikon cooker setting up shop in the area, and gave them the name and phone number on that spiked business card.  I got a call back the next day from someone renting a house out in the suburbs.  They’d matched the phone number to the tenants there, and wanted to let me know that they were sending all that info to the cops.”

“Are you serious?  Naraku used the same phone number on a rental application?”

“Not quite. The house was being rented out by two women, Kagura and Kanna, and in their application they put Naraku’s cell as an emergency contact, for some reason.  I guess they didn’t get the memo that went to his burner phone and really shouldn’t be attached to the house they were going to deal from.  Or maybe they just wanted to get caught.”

“The paper said the house was just leased that week,” Sango said, “and had lots of drug paraphernalia but no product yet.  That seemed a little convenient.”

“I thought so too.  And Sesshoumaru is a top-tier criminal litigator; the fact they could get him to show up and get a parole-only plea deal within a week really doesn’t make sense unless they had him on retainer and were planning to take Naraku down.”

“Apparently Naraku never saw it coming,” Sango said.  “I wish I could’ve seen the look on his face when he woke up to the police knocking down his door and finding him in bed, spooning two duffel bags full of uncut Shikon and Miasma.”

“Same here.  Sorry if I overstepped; I was just looking for information and didn’t realize the cops were already looking for him and ready to jump on a tip.”

“It’s all right; it’s not like I was going to get much out of kicking the crap out of him.”

Miroku side-eyed her.

“Well, I mean, I’d really enjoy it, obviously, but I can’t help but think he’d enjoy it almost as much.”

“Wouldn’t really blame him,” Miroku mused.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Sometime between getting their tickets and entering the special exhibition hall she realized she was holding his arm; it felt like such a casual, normal thing to do she didn’t even notice that she had done it.  He turned to her, just in time to see her blush, and kissed her cheek, right there, in the middle of the Ukiyou-e exhibit.  Her fingers intertwined with his.  It was so warm in here, she was sweating.  He gripped her hand and brushed his fingers on her arm, as if checking to make sure she was actually there.

He seemed to light up at the temple artifacts - Buddha statues of wood and stone and bronze, some as much as 900 years old - and thought aloud at the sort of history behind them, and what things they may have seen over the centuries.  Even the decrepit pieces, worm-eaten, dried out and split in places, paint and gilding all but rubbed off, he seemed fascinated by.

“I can only imagine the person who owned this,” he said, “some monk in some temple halfway around the world.  And it was lost and forgotten and bereft of care for a very long time.  It was beautiful before, because it was crafted by an expert.  And it’s beautiful now, because it weathered fire and theft, rain and snow, and all the other hardships nature and man could throw at it.  Did the person who made this have even an idea that his work would be admired a thousand years after his death?”

“I can’t imagine,” she said.  “I mean, it seems so arrogant to assume your work would survive the test of time like that.  I have to think this artist simply thought he would create something, and hope that others connected to it in some way.  That’s what art is to me, anyway.  Making a connection.  If you make something that speaks to someone, in a particular way, it’s almost a spiritual experience.  You get to actually touch someone’s soul.”

He smiled.

“And if you create something truly powerful, truly long-lasting, it can outsurvive you.  Your name is lost to history, but your creation abides, and continues to communicate your feelings, and touch the soul of others, across the extraordinary gulf of time and distance and culture.  Everything physical about this artist has long ago become dust, but he continues to influence people.  This very conversation is his own doing.  This is how art speaks to me, Sango.  We have just had a discussion - if a bit one-sided - with this artist, whoever he was.  Through his creation, he has achieved immortality.”

They proceeded to the arms and armament portions of the exhibit, where she regaled him with all she knew about the lacquer armor of the time, the judicious use of iron, and the methods of making swords.

“I’m surprised at the firearms.  They were used that early in Japan?” he asked.

“Absolutely.  A ship carrying Portuguese arquebuses had to weather a storm in a Japanese port in 1543.  Lord Tanegashima purchased two matchlocks and got his swordsmiths to work trying to copy them.  It took a while to get the technique right, but by 1553 Japan had made over a quarter million of them.  They even improved on the design, and developed volley fire techniques before the Europeans did.”

They moved on to paintings and prints.   _A Game of Shougi_ by Iwasa Matabei.   _Three Women Viewing Wisteria at Kamedo_ by Torii Kiyonaga.   _The Strong Woman, Okane, Subduing a Wild Horse_ by Utagawa Kuniyoshi.

“Look,” Sango said, pointing out the last picture.  “She still has her laundry in her hands.”

“I particularly like her ‘I don’t give a damn’ expression,” he added.  “Like this is a daily event for her.”

“She does seem pretty done with it,” Sango said.

“Actually, now that I think about it, wasn’t there a kabuki theater piece based on this painting?” Miroku asked.

She glanced at the description on the wall.  “It doesn’t say anything like that here.”

“I’m not surprised,” he said.  “It wasn’t very popular; the acting was very immature and had excessive roughousing.”

She turned to him.

“Don’t you dare,” she warned.

“You know.  Too much horseplay,” he deadpanned.

She rolled her eyes.

“I don’t know what advice column you were reading that suggested otherwise, but I assure you, Miorku, that the second date is way too early for bad puns.”

“You smiled a little,” he argued.

“Not the point.”

Sighing, she grabbed his shoulder and led him to the next exhibit, and pretended not to be amused by his dopey grin.

_He is such a dork._

Another hour of touring the museum and they were ready to go.  Miroku suggested they go out for dinner, but it was a little early for that yet, and with great trepidation she suggested they hang out at her apartment for a little while.

Her heart pounded as he followed her up the stairs and into her kitchen.  

Kilala mewed, staring intently at this intruder - she had slept through his earlier visit, or at least, hadn’t made her presence known.  Miroku smiled, resting on his haunches, hand outstretched, and the cat cautiously approached him, nuzzled his hand, and then padded to Sango, rubbed against her leg, and returned to her hiding spot in the living room.

“It looks like you have Kilala’s approval,” Sango said.

“I’m quite grateful,” he said.

She opened the Merlot she bought the day before and poured two glasses, and they leaned against the kitchen counter as they talked.

“So, I have to ask.  The nude modeling.  How did that start?”

“Ah, I was waiting for that to come up.”

He sipped his wine.

“One of my old running buddies had been an artist and a model for a couple years, and suggested it a while ago.  In terms of awkward conversations, it was pretty far up there, but apparently he’d seen me shirtless enough times he thought I’d be a good subject.”

“I can’t disagree with that,” she murmured.

“I kind of brushed it off, but it was in the back of my mind for a while.  I started looking into it and figured that I like art, and since I can’t draw worth a damn, I’d get a lot out of standing around and getting other people to draw.  I did a couple sessions at a college a few hours away, just to see if I was any good at it.  It’s a lot more work than I thought, and the first few sessions were pretty terrible, with me shaking and sweating trying to hold a pose for anything more than two minutes.”

“But you kept practicing?”

“It was either that or quit.  I realized I was never going to be good at it unless I put some actual work into it.  So I added it to my daily ritual: gym after work, then home, and then I’ll spend 10 minutes in front of a full-length mirror practicing new poses and seeing how long I can hold them.  And I was surprised at how hard that was.  I’m pretty comfortable with myself, and how I look, but staring at myself in the mirror for minutes at a time starts to turn into torture.”

“There’s no way that’s true.  I mean, Miroku, you really look great.”

“Thanks, I appreciate you saying so.”

“So this posing … do you usually wear something in particular for this?  Gym clothes?”

“Oh no, totally naked.”

She imagined Miroku coming home from the gym, stripping down, and posing, as he did in the classroom, and stifled a giggle.

“The session you saw was the first time I was brave enough to model in my own town, when I finally felt confident enough to model properly,” he said.

“I’m glad you did it.  It really shows that you’ve practiced - you came up with a lot of interesting poses and did really well at holding them.  I’ve been used to seeing a lot of sitting and lounging poses, but yours were so dynamic.  I really enjoyed drawing you.  I know for sure the rest of the class got a lot out of it.”

“I’m glad,” he said.  “Did you get some good pieces out of it?”

“Yes, several.  Would you like to see them?”

“I’d be honored, Sango.”

They carried their glasses to her bedroom, where she pulled out several of the sketches she had made of him in the classroom.

“Oh, wow,” he said.  

“They still need work, but I’m happy with them so far,” she said.

He flipped through the pages, studying the lines and shading, and she tried her best to follow his eyes to see what portions of each piece interested him the most.  

“I really like all of them, but I think this one - I think this was the javelin one?”

“Shot put,” she said.

“Ah, right.  If I had to choose, this might be my favorite of them.  And I’m glad - this was the hardest pose to do.  And you got that too - my arm and leg stretched out, my center of balance just barely to the left of my right ankle.  I’m really happy, Sango.  The fact you got something so good out of it made it well worth the effort.”

He glanced at the remaining pile of sketches on her desk.

“Would it be alright if I saw more of your work?”

She nodded.

Leaning against the desk, he began to flip through the pages.

“This is really incredible, Sango.  I have no idea how you can create things like this.”

“It’s just practice work, Miroku.  Anyone can draw stuff like that; it’s nothing special.”

“I don’t know about that.  I don’t know the first thing about art, I’ll admit.  But I know I’ve got plenty of pictures hanging up in my apartment that aren’t half as good as any of these.”

He paused at a reclining female nude, a brief attempt at impressionist watercolor, and compared it to another piece of a sitting male nude.

“I was trying different styles,” she said.

“Do you have a preference, Sango?  Male or female?”

“Oh, I’m totally straight.  I mean, maybe I had a crush on a girl or two in high school, but it’s not like I’m into women.”

He blinked.

“Do you prefer drawing males or females, I mean.”

“...oh.”

She sipped her wine, and blushed.

“I guess … well, it depends on the focus.  Women usually have nice curves, and they tend to be more flexible, so those are fun to draw.  I feel like I have to work a lot harder to draw men.  But I like anatomical details, particularly in the arms and shoulders and chest, and those are a lot more interesting in men, particularly if they’re athletic.”

“Ah,” he said.

“It’s difficult sometimes, though, depending on the pose.  Particularly for guys.  I can draw them fine, but penises are just weird looking.”

He gave her an aside glance.

_Oh, god, why would I say that to him?_

“N-not yours though!” she stammered.  “I mean, your penis is perfect, Miroku!  It’s got a nice shape and it’s all dangly and it looks so pretty and …”

_OH GOD WHY WOULD I SAY THAT TO HIM!?_

His aside glance continued, augmented with a raised eyebrow.

“I mean, it’s not like I want to touch it or anything!” she gasped, exasperated.

He blinked.

“Dammit, Miroku, are you just going to keep staring at me like that?”

“I wouldn’t dare interrupt such a heartfelt confession,” he smirked.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” she muttered.

“I’m going to put that on my business card.  Miroku Sagart.  His penis is pretty.  That way everyone knows I’m sexual, but friendly too.”

“All right, enough,” she said.

Smiling, he returned his attentions to her artwork.  She refilled her wine glass and retreated to the bed, where she sat, fidgeting.  Her discomfort abated as his smirk faded away, his expression one of total concentration on each page of her art.

It took a moment for her to realize he had stopped flipping through the pages.  She looked up, and he was frozen in place, and a little pale.

_Wait.  What did I have in that folder?_

_Just stuff from the last month.  A couple resting nudes.  Hand studies.  Face and expressions._

_Wait.  That last Miroku sketch.  The one I was going over again last night.  The worst one of them.  Did I put that one away, with the other Miroku pieces I really don’t want anyone to see?  Or did I stick it in the pile on my desk?  The pile he’s looking through right now?  Oh. Oh crap._

“Miroku, I - I’m sorry…”

He held the paper at an angle, and she could just barely see it over his shoulder, but she didn’t need to see it, because it was burned in her memory.

It was a tasteful piece, with him standing waist-deep in a body of water, arms behind his head in mid-stretch, the muscles of his chest and stomach perfectly chiseled.  His expression one she herself couldn’t fully describe - inquisitive, tempting, inviting.  

That is, it _was_ tasteful, but against her better judgement she worked out the lines of his legs beneath the water, intending to simply shade all that in, but instead she erased the ripples of water around his waist and moved them to just above his knees.  She had penciled in the folds of a towel tied at his waist, but as she did so, she realized that covering him would not be consistent with the expression she had happened upon.  Only then did she fully realize what she had drawn - Miroku skinny-dipping in a pond somewhere, caught unaware, completely vulnerable, and nonetheless pleased with the interruption.  This was not a Miroku who would cover himself, and by proxy, this was not a Miroku who needed her to cover him.  And so she drew his vulnerability, stark and realistic, and when she was done she had a sketch of something incredibly intimate.

“I don’t recall doing this pose,” he said.

She buried her face in her hands, cheeks burning red.  

“I’m so sorry, I was just playing around and I got carried away.  I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“Do I really look like this?”

“I guess.  I mean, to me.”

“Are there any others?”

“Wh-what?”

“Any other pictures like this?”

“N-no,” she said.  “I wouldn’t - I mean, just because I did that one picture…” She stiffened, embarrassment so easily turning into anger.  “That doesn’t mean I spend all my time thinking about you like that.”

He seemed to wince at that.

“Ah, of course you’re right.  I apologize; that was very presumptive of me.”

She curled into herself, although he did not appear to notice.  He continued to flip through the stack of drawings, and when he neared the end, she screwed up her courage, stomped to her dresser, pulled out the folder she hid there, and slapped it on the desk beside him.

“Here,” she said.  “That’s it.  All of them.”

He glanced at her, no doubt in surprise that she had just lied to him so blatantly, but his interest in the contents of the folder quickly overtook that.  There were additional nudes in there of him, she knew, but thankfully only a half-dozen pieces, all quick studies without much detail. There were a good 20 more drawings in there, mostly extensions of the poses he did back in that art room, along with detail of his face and chest.  None of them particularly embarrassing, she thought, except that they betrayed at least 12 hours of her thinking about him and putting those thoughts to paper.

“Wow,” he said.  “You got all this from just one session?”

She nodded.

“That’s really incredible.  Do you produce this much for every model you study?”

“Ah … not quite as much, no.  I guess you’re kind of a muse, or something.”

He laughed.

“A muse, huh?  I have to admit that is something I never expected anyone to call me.”

“I don’t know why,” she said.  “You’re so completely-”

She blushed, unable to say it.

_You’re so completely perfect and I want you._

He glanced at her, but did not say anything until he had arranged the pile of her work on her desk in a neat stack.  Stepping toward her, grasping her shoulders, he brought her in for a deep kiss that set her heart fluttering.

Her fingers traced along his arms, up to his shoulders, and then splayed them over his chest, feeling the warmth and firmness of him, and she leaned forward and kissed him.  Their mouths opened, and she murmured softly as his tongue slipped into her mouth.  She pressed her body against him and kissed him back, their tongues playfully circling each other, the warmth and taste of his mouth overwhelming her senses.

She reached around him, pressing her hands to his back, and he did the same, and they embraced for some time.

“You have no idea, do you?” he asked.

“About what?”

“Three weeks ago.  In your classroom.  I almost lost my composure, the way you were looking at me.”

“I didn’t … I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable…”

“I know.  But you did.  You were looking at me and seeing something nobody else saw.  And you were so incredibly beautiful, the way you furrowed your brows and took pencil to paper.  And I don’t know why, but it thrilled me, Sango, to watch you create something.  Something I inspired.  Everyone else was drawing me as they saw me, and that was something I was used to.  But you were drawing me as I was, seeing right through me, and capturing something special.  I can’t even tell you how many people were in that classroom.  You were the only one I had eyes for.”

She shook her head.

“I’m really sorry,” she said.  “I tried to keep it professional.  I didn’t want to take advantage of you.”

He placed soft kisses along her neck.

“Did it not occur to you, Sango, that I _wanted_ you to take advantage of me?”

She made a soft, embarrassed whimper.

“H-how?” she squeaked.

“Hm?”

“How … what sort of thing … would I do?  To … to take advantage?”

“That’s entirely up to you, Sango.”

A small voice in the back of her head made a very rude suggestion.

_There is a bad thing I’ve been thinking about for a little while now._

_He is literally asking me to do the bad thing._

_So I will do the bad thing._

She set her jaw in determination.  Picked up the wine glass beside her,  Downed it.

“I am not yet drunk enough,” she declared.  “Wait here.”

She returned to her bedroom with her glass full, wine bottle in one hand, and locked the door behind her.  She gestured him to the corner near her closet, where the full length mirror gave her a good view of his backside, and she sat at her desk, elbows propped on her chair arms, legs crossed.

He cocked his head, perhaps unaware of what he had just unleashed.

“All right,” she said.  “Inspire me.”

“Sango?”

“Clothes.  Off.”

He laughed, but acquiesced, and began to undress.  Shoes and socks, jacket and shirt and pants, and soon he stood in a pair of light blue boxers and nothing else.

Heat coiled in her belly.  The thrill of watching him undress for her was overwhelming.  She couldn't have done something so rude if not for the way he looked at her, in fascination - more likely than not reflecting the same look in her own eyes.  

“Any particular pose, Sango?”

He stood at rest, facing her, arms at his sides.

“Perhaps like that bath picture, Sango?”

He mimicked the pose, hands up, fingers laced into his hair, his body turned just so.

“That … that is a good start,” she breathed.

She approached him, and hesitantly brought her hand to his chest, fingers splaying over the flesh.  His eyes followed her movements.

“Am I inspiring you, Sango?”

“Yes,” she said.  “I just … I need to touch you more.”

“Then touch me, Sango.”

She walked around him and gently kissed the back of his neck, drawing fingers into his hair and then down to his shoulders, and with gentle touch and the occasional kiss and nuzzle, worked her way down to his waist. Fingers tracing over his underwear, feeling the curve of his buttocks, and then moving to the muscles of his thighs and calves.

Moving around to his front now, she placed soft kisses on his abdomen and chest, admiring the blush on his cheeks.  

“I’m sorry, this must be really weird,” she said.

“It is, but I’m enjoying myself immensely.”

“It’s just that - in the art room, I had to draw you for so long, and that meant I had to look at you all that time, and hold myself back, and not let myself feel anything inappropriate.  And just a moment ago, all I could think about was how good it would feel to be able to look at you, and touch you, and have you be okay with it …”

“I assure you I am more than okay with this, Sango.  I leave myself in your hands.”

They kissed again, and he pulled her close, their arms roaming over each others’ backs, and she found herself slowly swaying her hips against him.  This, she quickly realized, was his undoing.

“Ah,” he said softly.

“Miroku?”

He was blushing, avoiding her eyes.

“Sorry, you’re … you’re making it very difficult for me to  … er, control that.”

She felt him, firm and warm, against her.  The heat welling in her own belly flared as she realized the proof of what she was doing to him.

If it were anyone else, she would have fled.  Fled her own bedroom, burned the building to the ground, skipped town, started a new identity somewhere.  This was too embarrassing.  She was completely unused to taking charge like this, content to simply lay back and let her partner take the lead.  But he was so beautiful.  So vulnerable.  And that part of him that was just cylinders and spheres back in the classroom was something else, vital and alive, responding to her attentions.  

A rush of power flowed through her.  

“Who says I want you to control it?” she said.

“Sango?”

“You said it yourself, Miroku.  That you leave yourself in my hands.”

Punctuating this, she slipped her hand down his chest.  As she touched the waistband of his underwear, the spell on him was broken, the pose abandoned, his hands gripping her wrist.

“Stop,” he gasped.

“Miroku?  Miroku, I’m sorry, I won’t … I’ll stop, I promise.”

“It’s alright,” he said, “it’s just too much, this time.  Maybe another time.  But for now, Sango, please don’t make me bear this any longer.  This teasing.”

He took her hands and held them to his chest.  His forehead pressed to her, sweat on his brow, the sweet taste of his breath.

“Please, Sango.  You are a special woman to me.  You are not like any other.  Whatever we have here, I can’t trade it in for a one-night stand.  I refuse.  Please, tell me that this is something real.  Something we can work for.  Because otherwise I’m afraid I can’t continue.”

“Miroku,” she breathed.  “It’s real.  I want you.  Only you.  We can take this slow, or fast, or whatever you like, but I’m yours if you’ll have me.  You asked me a question in your kitchen last week, and the answer is yes.  I want you to be my boyfriend, very very much.”

“Sango …”

His mouth resumed its assault on her lips, and soon his kisses moved to her neck, breath hot in her ear.  She felt her knees weaken, but already he had guided her to the bed, and pressing against her, urged her to lay on her back, and all the while she kept her hands around his neck, forcing him to lay atop her.  Propping himself up with his left elbow, he freed his right hand to move up and down the side of her body, from her shoulder to her ribs, her stomach, and her hip.  Her breathing quickened, her hips moving back and forth in anticipation of his movements.  Her skin was afire, begging for his touch.

“Oh, god,” she whispered.  Miroku had finally cupped her breast, gently squeezing and rubbing the flesh, his touch electric even when dulled by her shirt and bra.  She lay back, breathless, feeling herself floating away as Miroku massaged her chest.

“Sango,” he whispered.

“Mm?”

“May I undress you, Sango?”

She smiled, and nodded enthusiastically.

The buttons of her shirt came undone, the fabric spread to either side, and he continued his work, his hands warming the bare flesh of her belly and upper chest, fingernails scraping the lace of her white bra, a single finger tracing the scalloped line of a bra cup.  He leaned back, studying her chest, and began to draw figure-8’s around her breasts, and this evolved into slow spirals.  He ceased his movement for a moment, smiling, his fingers on the peak of her left breast, and she knew he could feel her nipple straining through the fabric.  

“Miroku,” she said, in a tone that was too breathless to properly scold him.  “You’re teasing me.”

“Am I?”

“Y-yes…”

“How am I teasing you, Sango?”

“I already told you … you can undress me…”

His breathing quickened, and this unguarded reaction brought her great pleasure.  He leaned back, and she was about to arch her back, so that he could slide his hand behind her and unclasp her bra.  But he went entirely the other direction, his hand slipping down her stomach, capturing the hem of her skirt.  Their eyes locked as he drew her skirt upward, exposing her underwear.

She lay back, arms to her sides, hair splayed over the sheets, and watched him watch her.  His eyes roved over her body, and she hoped that she read his expression correctly - fascination and want.  She smiled inwardly at her abundance of preparation - her matching white lace bra and panties seemed to please him.  

Quickly he made use of her bare legs; with one hand on her right heel and the other just under her knee he held her steady and began to trail kisses from her toes to her ankle and up her calf.  Mouth and fingers left a trail of goosebumps as he made his way up her outer thigh, to her hip, and he moved across her pelvis and worked his way back down her left leg.

He moved up her body again, straddling her on hands and knees, kissing upward from her bellybutton, gently nuzzling her cleavage, and then returning to her lips, whereupon she weaved her fingers into his hair and drove her tongue into his mouth.

His right hand moved down to her hip, thumb lightly stroking the waistband of her underwear, and she broke the kiss, gasping in frustration.

“Sango,” he said.  “Please tell me if I’m moving too fast.”

It was too much.  She had been satisfied with lying back and allowing him to do as he would, but her patience was simply beyond the breaking point.

She gripped his hair with one hand, holding his head above hers, making him look her directly in the eyes.  With the other hand she grasped his wrist, flattened his palm against her belly.  And slowly, with undeniable deliberation, she moved his fingers downward, slipping under her panties, guiding him to cup her sopping wet sex.

In unison, they sucked in a breath.

“Sango.”

“Miroku.”

She sucked on her lower lip as he curled his fingers against her, and a groan escaped her as he found her entrance and slipped inside.

His mouth found hers, and she mewled and yelped against his lips as he explored her with his hand.  Her hips twisted and rolled against his touch.  He moved, hooking his right leg over hers, pinning her just enough to slow the wild movements of her hips.

She grimaced in annoyance with this, wanting to be free to move as she liked, but he was quickly forgiven as she realized why - her movements were interfering with his attentions.  With her lower body restricted this way, he could touch her more delicately, more precisely.  And this he did, gently running fingers up and down the length of her sex, teasing her labia between thumb and forefinger, dipping into her and making slow circles on her heated flesh.

She leaned back, eyes closed, surrendering herself to the mercy of his touch, his breath hot on her neck.  

He shifted, pressing his knee against her thigh, murmuring something akin to satisfaction against her neck as she obligingly spread her legs for him.  

Withdrawing his hand, he gripped her left knee, guiding her to spread her legs wider.  She blushed at this, at the exposure.  Tracing gentle fingers along her inner thigh, he cupped her over her damp panties for a moment, and then drew them aside, exposing her.

Again he dipped into her, and this time curled fingers upward, and she shook as he found that special spot.  Slipping in and out now, faster and faster, her hips began to roll against him.  Angling his hand, he brushed her over-sensitive clit with his thumb, making her cry out.

“Sango,” he growled.

He pressed his forehead to hers, and she stared, wide eyed, gasping for breath.  She gripped his shoulder, holding him close.

_There.  It’s coming.  It’s going to happen._

The wave broke, and she shook beneath him.  She arched her back, closed her eyes, lost herself entirely, and so far as she could tell, his eyes never left her, as if the sight of her orgasm was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen.

He brought his body against her, and breathed with her, and the aftermath of her pleasure was filled with his touch.  When her breathing became even, and it was clear to him she had recovered, he again went to work.

“Miroku,” she gasped.  

He touched her shoulders, gently rolled her over, and she pillowed her face in her arms, and suddenly light fingers were tracing up and down her body, from the nape of her neck, down her shoulders and back, across her bottom and thighs, all the way to her feet, and back again.  Should could only murmur softly as he unclasped her bra, and oh-so-gently slipped her skirt and panties down and off her legs.  

She allowed him to lay soft kisses up and down her back, and caress her bottom, her back, her shoulders.  When he bade her to turn over again, his eyes drank her, and he cupped her breasts with his hands.

“Miroku,” she said.  “May I?”

Her fingers reached down, eliciting a gasp from him as she touched his arousal.  He groaned as she began to feel the contours beneath his boxers.

“Please, Miroku,” she said.  “Tell me what you’d like me to do.  Let me make you feel good.”

He kissed her, and brushed a nipple with his thumb, making her moan into his mouth.

“There are two things you can do for me, Sango, that will make me feel very good indeed.”

“Tell me,” she breathed.

He moved down her body, kissing her breast and ribs and stomach, his movements separating his arousal from her hands.

“First, Sango, I need you to make some noises for me.”

“Noises?”

“The kind that will have your neighbor banging on the wall,” he said.

“Oh,” she said.

“Second, and this will help the first item, I need you to spread your legs for me.”

“Miroku!”

He was fast, too fast, and before she could offer protest his mouth was _there_ , and his tongue was very very warm, and _oh my god…_

The look of him, between her legs, his eyes staring at her with such intensity and passion, as he tasted her …

She gripped his hair, held him there, rolled her hips against him.  His hands gripped her bottom, making her angle her hips just the way he liked.

“Oh god, oh god,” she gasped.

Helpless to his attentions, she could do little but lie back, and let him work her.  She closed her eyes, and surrendered to Miroku’s mouth.

The pleasure built up again, more intense than the previous one, and she rode the waves, shaking against him, and he made soft noises of encouragement against her heated, wet flesh as she came.

The last wave of her orgasm hadn’t yet subsided when she gripped his shoulders and pulled him away, towered her face, and she kissed him, his mouth wet with her, and her hands pulled at his underwear.

“Please,” she said.  “Take these off.”

“Sango, are you certain?”

“Completely.  Please, Miroku.”

Four hands and four feet worked together to slide this last bit of clothing down his legs, and now nothing separated them, and she took his erection in her hands and guided it into her body.

“Ah, god,” he groaned.

Gently he worked his way into her, inch by inch, and once she had taken him in fully, they held still, her hands on his bottom, his hands gripping the sheets on either side of her head.

“Sango,” he breathed.

“Miroku…”

“I can’t believe … Sango …”

Her hands moved up his body, gripping his face, bringing his mouth to hers.

“Sango,” he whispered, between kisses.  “The way you feel right now … I’ve never felt anything so incredible.”

She nodded.  It was extraordinary.  

  
“Are … are you ready, Sango? I … I want … to move …”

“I’m ready.”

He moved, slow strokes, gentle and intense.  His eyes never left hers.  She wrapped her legs around him as he quicked his pace, breathing with him, gripping his hair, kissing him, feeling him.

She could do this forever, she thought, but within a few minutes she realized his rhythm was beginning to break.

“Sango,” he gasped.  “I’m … I can’t … ah …”

“I know,” she said.  “I want you to.”

He gasped, his muscles tense beneath her fingers, and found his release.  She held him close, held him inside, letting him collapse against her.  She held him tightly, reassuringly, fingers splayed on his back, until he recovered some minutes later.

“Sango,” he whispered.  “I can’t even describe …”

He exhaled softly, warmly, on her cheek.

“I think I’m experiencing a state some might call _nirvana_ , Sango.  Every moment of my life has passed by my mind’s eye.  I am in a state of total awareness.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, and gave her a dopey grin.

“Also, I might - _might_ \- have left the stove on.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” she groaned.

She stroked his back, slippery with sweat, and extended a foot to snag her sheets, pulling them over his back.

“Sango?”

“I suggest you get comfortable,” she said.  “You’re not going anywhere for a while.”

“Well, your body is exceedingly comfortable,” he admitted.

“Let’s just rest a bit,” she said.

He pressed his head to her shoulder.

“Yes, let’s stay like this forever,” he said.

The slam of the front door of the apartment banging the doorstop, and then shutting, shook them out of their stupor.

“Sango!” shouted a voice from the kitchen.

_Kagome?_

“Sango,” Kagome cried.  “Come out here!  Guess who I met at the gym today!”

Sango and Miroku stared at each other in shock.

“Give up?  It’s my new boyfriend!  He’s _stacked_!”

“Jesus, Kagome!  I’m right here!  And I never said we were really dating!  I told you, I have this thing with that art professor!  I can’t just break that off!”

“Inuyasha!?” they both gasped.

Their eyes turned to the door.

“I swear I locked it,” Sango said.

The knob turned.

 

 _Am I wrong for thinking that we could be something for real?_  
_Am I wrong for trying to reach the things that I can't see?_  
_\- Nico & Vinz _

 

 _So baby kiss me like a drug, like a respirator_  
_And let me fall into the dream of the astronaut_  
_Where I get lost in space that goes on forever_  
_And you make all the rest just an afterthought_  
_\- Aimee Mann_

 

**END**


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